One Day You Will
by clarawithfitzsimmonsin221b
Summary: Clint Barton and his friends are the 'in' crowd and not always in a good way. It's senior year and they're looking forward to football games, prom, and graduation. Everything else, well, not so much. When Clint is assigned the new girl for a partner project, they both just want it done, but surprisingly find themselves learning more than US History along the way. High School AU.
1. Temporary Home

**A/N: Well, I seem to have opened up my computer and written an Avengers high school AU. I normally wouldn't have, but this idea was nagging me and it wouldn't go away until I wrote it down! I think I like it, so I'll probably continue it...maybe not depending on the response. Let me know what y'all think! :-)**

* * *

**Chapter 1: Temporary Home**

Miss Fall was an art teacher. She didn't usually get a lot of brainiacs in her classes because, well, there was no Advanced Placement art class. What she did get were troublemakers, freshman who needed an arts credit, _seniors_ who needed an arts credit, and the occasional, rare student who was actually interested in art.

Needless to say, the last were her favorite.

Unfortunately, it seemed that there was only one or two this semester that showed genuine excitement for the class. Miss Fall thought that Lizzy or Rebecca were the most likely to care, based on the way that they had showed up with full sets of every possible artistic medium that money could buy. Stephen had a bit of light in his eyes, so she had hope for him as well. Colleagues in the staffroom had told her that Carrie, Bruce, Betty, and Terrence were the kids that always tried, even if they were terrible at a subject, so that was a bit of a relief.

The rest of the class seemed pretty hopeless.

Specifically, Miss Fall was worried about the jock sitting in the last row, wearing his varsity jacket. She had heard tales about him all too often in the staff room, but had never had the actual _pleasure_ of having him in her class. The one thing that was clear was that no teacher (other than the football coach) had ever had Clint Barton in their class and had anything positive to say about it.

So while the last few students trickled in before the warning bell, Miss Fall eyed Clint Barton and his little posse, that somehow managed to end up with the exact same schedule every year, not failing to notice that they took the seats as far away from her desk and the front of the room as possible. From the rumors she had heard, the only other serious troublemaker in the bunch was Barton's best friend, Anthony. Steven and Sharon, who were juniors and therefore one year younger than everyone else, were quiet and mostly polite; Pepper, Anthony's girlfriend, supposedly wasn't ever purposefully disruptive, but she wasn't the front-row-sitter type of student either. Judging by the name already scribbled all over Jane's brand new notebook, Miss Hall assumed that she spent most of her time dreaming about her boyfriend, who was the star quarterback of the rival football team. Or maybe it was just that this wasn't a science class and that was why Jane didn't look thrilled to be here. The last member of the highest clique on the social ladder was clinging to Barton's arm, at least an inch of make-up on her face and enough hairspray in her hair to start a fire. Bobbi was the head of the cheerleading squad and had caught Clint Barton's eye the first time she did a flip off the top of a pyramid at the game where he debuted as the new starting quarterback.

That was back when they were all freshmen.

_Now_, thought Miss Hall, _now they're all seniors and if they actually make it to graduation we'll all breathe a sigh of relief._

The final bell echoed through the halls and classrooms, signaling the start of the first day of school. The students all stood for the Pledge of Allegiance and Miss Hall pulled out her attendance sheet.

It was going to be a long year.

* * *

It was three months into the school year when a family with a seven-year-old daughter took in a foster child. The girl was seventeen and lucky that the family wanted a built in babysitter or she probably wouldn't have been placed. She moved in with George and Carol Smith and their daughter Tina in late November. They enrolled her in the local high school, but didn't give much thought to her after that. They didn't ask what her favorite color was or if she played any sports (red and no). They didn't ask if she preferred books or movies (The answer is books) and they didn't ask if she favored cats or dogs (cats, of course). They didn't pry, just like every other family she had been with. But that was alright.

Natasha liked it that way.

* * *

"You've been through a lot of different schools lately Natasha." Principal Fury eyed the young girl in front of him. She was dressed simply in jeans and a gray sweater and her basic black backpack was sitting on the floor next to her chair along with three books (textbooks for math and science and a free read book, _The Power Of One_). She didn't look like one to get kicked out of schools, so Fury decided that there must be another reason for her frequent switches. He glanced back down at her file and his good eye found the words _foster child_. He looked back up quickly and, by the look on the girl's face, he knows that she knows that he just figured out that she is a foster child. Fury coughed to cover the awkward silence and thrusted a piece of paper at her.

"Here's your schedule," he says gruffly, "My secretary, Ms. Hill, can show you to your first class."

Natasha took the piece of paper and murmured a subdued thank you before following a stern looking, brown haired lady out of the principal's office.

.

.

.

The first day was always the worst. Natasha knew that, but it didn't change the fact that the first day in a new life sucked. The people gave you funny looks, you usually got lost, and it was almost a guarantee that no one nice would speak to you. At the moment though, the thing that was really bothering Natasha was the principal across the desk from her. She had seen her share of weird principals, short, fat, skinny, tall, white, black, Asian, bald, dreadlocks, you name it.

But she would admit, this was the first time that she had seen a principal with an eye patch.

Part of her wondered what had happened to warrant an eye patch, but before she could ask he glanced down at the file in front of him and looked back up, his one eye full of pity. Natasha's heart sank faster than a stone in the water. She _hated_ that look, hated the way it filled her with embarrassment, hated the way that she felt inferior because of it, hated that there was absolutely nothing she could do about it, hated that she would deal with it her whole life. Suddenly, the principal shoved her schedule at her and she took it, trying not to leap from her chair and run to the door. She spied his secretary standing in the doorway and followed her quickly, desperate to be anywhere but here.

.

.

.

"What's your first class?" The secretary, Ms. Hill, paused outside the front office and waited while Natasha looked at her schedule for the first time.

"Uh, Art 101," she replied once she finally managed to sort out the paper. The class was a blessed relief for Natasha, something familiar. She doesn't have to face a challenge right away. Ms. Hill took off without another word and Natasha was forced to scramble to catch up. The halls twisted and turned in a blur and Natasha knew that she wouldn't be able to find her way back without help, not without making a few wrong turns. Ms. Hill finally came to a halt outside a door at the end of a hallway. She gestured toward the door and walked away without waiting to see if Natasha went in or not.

Natasha took a deep breath and turned the handle, instinctively avoiding the faces of the students already seated. A slim, average height, blonde woman, whom Natasha took to be the teacher, was standing by a chalkboard when Natasha walked in. Her blue eyes swung toward the young redhead, the first kind eyes that Natasha had seen all day and it was an enormous relief. The teacher smiled warmly.

"Can I help you?"

Natasha nodded shyly and walked over to her. Somewhere in the back of the classroom someone-Anthony-gave a low wolf-whistle. Heat started to rise in Natasha's cheeks but she knew from experience that she didn't blush easily and she ignored whoever it was. The teacher, on the other hand, did not. She rounded on the offending boy, shooting him a death glare.

"Anthony Stark, if I _ever _hear such a noise from you again, in my classroom or not, I will have you in detention for the rest of the year, do you understand me?" A quiet _yes ma'am_ was muttered and the teacher refocused on Natasha, smiling that same warm smile. Natasha held out her schedule for the teacher to see.

"I'm a transfer student," she explained, the same explanation she had said a dozen times over, "This is my first day here."

"I see," said the teacher, returning her schedule to her, "I am Miss Hall, the art teacher. Why don't you take the seat over there between Bruce and Carrie?" Natasha ducked her head once in compliance and turned to go to the only available seat in the room, between a scrawny boy with dark hair and pale skin and a shorter girl with light brown hair that was tied back in a ponytail.

"It's nice to have you here…?" Miss Hall trailed off, looking at the girl's retreating back expectantly. She turned around for half a second, pausing in her path to the desk.

"Natasha," she said softly.

"Well then, it's very nice to meet you Natasha." Miss Hall stepped back up to the chalkboard. "As I was saying…"

The boy and girl on either side of Natasha smiled when she sat down. The boy-Bruce, Natasha assumed-turned away almost immediately and listened to Miss Hall with rapt attention. In complete contrast the girl-Carrie-leaned over and whispered in Natasha's ear.

"You'll like Miss Hall. She's one of the best teachers here. My name's Carrie, by the way."

"Natasha," whispered Natasha back, not sure what she should say. Apparently her name was acceptable because Carrie leaned back over and they both focused in on the assignment Miss Hall was describing.

"…shading techniques you will create a sketch. The sketch will fit under a specific topic. Today's topic is 'Things You Love'." Miss Hall wrote the topic on the board and underlined it. Natasha froze, panic swelling inside of her. She had learned those shading techniques ages ago, when one of her foster moms had taught her to draw. The problem she had here was with the topic. Shaking ever so slightly, Natasha raised her hand.

"Yes, Natasha?"

"What if you don't love anything?"

There were a few snickers following her question, mostly from Barton and Co., but she ignored them, eyes imploring Miss Hall, who was considering the question. If any other student had asked this, Miss Hall might have told them off. But for some reason, the great big green eyes of this new student told Miss Hall that Natasha wasn't joking.

She didn't believe that she loved anything.

"In that case," Miss Hall cleared her throat, "you may choose something that you are merely fond of."

Natasha visibly relaxed and nodded. Miss Hall waved her hand and freed the class to begin their sketching. Natasha immediately pulled out a thick sketchbook and her special shading pencils. Miss Hall bit back a smile when she caught sight of Natasha's professional materials. A general buzz of conversation settled over the room and, as much as she would like to be left out of it, Natasha found Carrie speaking to her again.

"So where did you transfer from Natasha?"

"Um, I moved here from Colorado." Her hand began moving of its own accord, separate from her brain, the transfer of graphite from pencil to paper more of an instinctive act, as it always was for her.

"That's quite a jump, Colorado to New York," commented Bruce from off to her right. Natasha nodded vaguely, focusing mostly on her sketch. She was praying that they weren't going to ask the obvious question and was almost certain that they would.

"Why did you move?" Carrie said the words that Natasha least wanted to hear as if it were the most casual thing in the world, and to her it probably was. Carrie was frowning at her paper, where the shading techniques weren't working out quite as well as on Natasha's, so she didn't see Natasha freeze up for a moment at her question.

"I…I'm a foster child," admitted Natasha, opting to rip the Band-Aid off quickly instead of prolonging her anxiety. Carrie looked up, surprised and from the corner of her eye Natasha saw Bruce sending her a sidelong glance. She maintained her focus on the sketch, pretending not to see the specks of pity in both their eyes.

"Well, I think it's lovely that you're here, don't you Bruce?" Bruce nodded and looked down at his paper and his struggling drawing of a rose. Natasha didn't reply. She knew fake words when she heard them, had heard them enough times in the past. Carrie didn't try to continue the conversation much after that, something that was perfectly okay with Natasha.

.

.

.

Miss Hall was fascinated with watching the new student work. Natasha's hand moved with the skill and experience of someone much older than she was and it was clear that she was familiar with the type of work they were doing in class. She seemed to be keeping mostly to herself, although Miss Hall did notice Carrie trying to engage her in conversation. Natasha seemed to prefer to work in silence and Carrie got the hint after a few minutes. Miss Hall spent the 55 minute period staring, as indiscreetly as she could manage, at Natasha. She couldn't help a small smile at the look of concentration that slowly appeared on Natasha's face and the way that it intensified little by little. Natasha's wavy red hair slipped forward and fell over her face and onto the paper every few minutes and every few minutes Natasha reached up and tucked the rebellious strands behind her ears. Before Miss Hall even knew it, the clock was reading five minutes until the period ended. Abruptly, she stood and called for everyone to turn in their sketches. Natasha was one of the last to stand up; she continued some finishing touches while the main rush of students put their pictures in the basket. When she finally placed her sketch in the basket, Miss Hall was blown away. There was a clear display of Natasha's mastery of shading and drawing in general, but the subject of the sketch threw Miss Hall for a loop. She would never have pinned Natasha as a dancer, not with her quiet demeanor and arms full of books, but there, on a piece of cream-colored notebook paper, was a perfectly drawn pair of ballet slippers.

.

.

.

Natasha packed her art supplies back in her backpack. She glanced around a little awkwardly. Everyone was in groups, chatting through the last few minutes of class. She felt a pair of eyes on her and looked up to see a light-haired boy, surrounded by other people, watching her. The all too familiar heat rose in her cheeks and she dropped her gaze as the blonde girl next to the boy tugged on his arm. Thankfully, Carrie chose that moment to come back over to Natasha's desk.

"Do you know where your next class is?"

Grateful for the distraction, Natasha shook her head and glanced down at the slightly crumpled paper in her hand.

"US History with Brennan." Natasha wrinkled her nose with distaste, drawing a laugh from Carrie.

"That's right next to my class. I'm in European History. I can show you."

"Thank you." Natasha was surprised; it seemed like Carrie was actually trying to be nice to her, a first for Natasha. No one really liked to hang out with the girl who was quiet and reserved and actually cared about school. The boy who had been sitting on the other side of Carrie during class padded over and smiled at Natasha.

"This is Terrence," said Carrie, a rosy color rising in her cheeks. Natasha smiled a small smile; she knew a crush when she saw one.

"Hello." Terrence blew some curls out of his eyes and the bell finally rang. Carrie started off toward a red brick building and Natasha and Terrence fell into step on either side of her. Carrie was about to say something when all of a sudden a boy with dark hair and a red and gold sweatshirt pushed right between her and Natasha, knocking them both to the ground and sending Natasha's books all over the pavement. He was closely followed by two blondes and the light haired boy from art class. Another blonde girl and a blonde boy glanced down at the two fallen girls sympathetically.

"Are you alright?" asked the boy. Natasha nodded and Carrie rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, we're fine Steve. Now go on, don't you have some _friends_ to catch up to?" The venom in Carrie's voice surprised Natasha; the other girl had been nothing short of perfectly polite so far. Steve winced and Sharon glared at Carrie before tugging on Steve's arm. The pair rushed off after the others as Carrie and Natasha stood and dusted themselves off. Natasha gathered her books up and looked at Carrie curiously.

"What was that all about?"

"The Dream Team." Carrie and Terrence spoke in unison, both sounding disgusted.

"They're the popular kids," explained Terrence, "You know, the jocks, their girlfriends, et cetera et cetera."

"Steve and Sharon used to be alright but then he got some muscle and joined the baseball team and now he hangs out with Stark and Barton and their crowd. He pretty much abandoned us entirely." Carrie was incredibly bitter and Natasha shook her head sadly. She had known, of course, that _those_ kids would be here. They were at every high school. But she had hoped that she wouldn't have to deal with them too much on a regular basis.

Unfortunately, it didn't seem that that was the case.

They finally reached their destination and had to part ways. Carrie and Terrence both smiled at her as they went into their European History class. Natasha took a deep breath and walked in to her second period. The first thing that she noticed was the blonde haired boy (Steve?) and the girl who had glared at Carrie sitting in the back row with the boy in the maroon sweatshirt who had pushed them down and some other people Natasha recognized from her art class. She heard the one boy whistle again, but this time the teacher couldn't hear over the hubbub of the classroom. The kids surrounding the boy snickered but Natasha forced herself to ignore them, despite her instinctive urge to strike back, and made her way to the teacher's desk to explain who she was.

The first day in a new life sucks.

* * *

She wasn't the kind of girl that Clint Barton would normally notice. He knew that right away. She was carrying textbooks and wasn't wearing any make-up and she didn't look confident when she walked in. She probably didn't play sports and the basic once over he gave her told him that, although she could be with legs like those, she wasn't a cheerleader. He wouldn't have paid her any mind, except for the question that she asked.

_What if you don't love anything?_

It had been a shock for him, to hear the words that echoed in his head every day said out loud. It was easy for him to pretend to love. He pretended he loved sports (He really only loved one and they didn't have it at this high school). He pretended to love Bobbi (He didn't-come on, they were only 18!). He pretended to love, but he didn't. So he studied the new girl, wondering if she was like him. But he saw her talking to Carrie and Bruce and Terrence and he snorted to himself. It didn't matter if the girl was like him, if she was going to talk to losers, then he was out. Barton looked away from the red head and wrapped an arm around Bobbi's waist, leaning in to kiss her and all thoughts of the new girl left his mind.

_But what if you don't love anything?_


	2. This Ain't Nothing

**A/N: Wow guys I was so surprised by the response to the first chapter! You guys are the best and I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations. I am planning to continue this story, but I don't update on any sort of schedule (with any of my stories) because I have a pretty hectic schedule outside of writing (unfortunately). I wish I could sit around all day and write! At any rate, here's this chapter for all you lovelies:) **

**By the way, don't worry, Clint and Natasha will actually have some interaction in the next chapter;)**

* * *

**Chapter 2: This Ain't Nothing**

Natasha felt like putting her head through a wall.

She had forgotten, with the few blissful months of orphanage homeschooling, that high school could be positively _dreadful_. Sure, somewhere there might be a student who enjoyed United States History, but despite her love for learning, Natasha couldn't stand the subject. Of course, today's topic wasn't exactly helping.

_The Cold War._

It brought up too many unpleasant memories for Natasha, things about her life that she tried not to think about if at all possible. Unfortunately, it looked like this teacher, Mr. Brennan, was the kind that was just going to stare at the class until someone answered the question. Natasha pursed her lips and stared at her empty notebook.

"Who can tell me something about the Cold War?"

Brennan scanned the classroom and Natasha hesitated. If she answered the question, she risked triggering things that she had tightly boxed away. But if she didn't answer, this discussion was going to go on for god knows how long. Sighing, Natasha tentatively raised her hand. Surprise flitted across Brennan's face. He probably hadn't had a student volunteer information in a long time. He nodded at her and Natasha took a deep breath, reminding herself that these were merely facts and nothing more.

"The Cold War was a conflict between the powers in the Western Bloc and the powers in the Eastern Bloc. It is most commonly viewed as the United States versus the USSR or capitalism versus communism. Although historians don't agree completely on the dates, the most commonly accepted time span is 1947-1991. The Cold War involved no large scale military operations and was more so a war of propaganda, espionage, and technological warfare. Some of the main highlights of the Cold War are the Berlin Blockade, the Space Race, and the Berlin Wall."

By the time Natasha had finished speaking, Brennan was staring at her open-mouthed. Natasha expected that no student had ever given him such a complete answer to any question he had asked. He gave her a searching look, scrutinizing her closely.

"Have you already studied this subject, Miss…"

Natasha hesitated for barely a second. "Romanoff and I don't need to, sir."

"And why is that, Miss Romanoff?" Brennan's question was a challenge. He obviously recognized the American version of Romanova. Natasha swallowed apprehensively and glanced around at the class. About half of them were staring at the floor, or the window, or the clock, bored out of their minds. The other half was watching her curiously, waiting for her answer. A pair of stormy blue eyes was practically drilling into Natasha's skull and she pretended not to notice, just as she had with every other idiot who thought that staring hard at her would attract her to them. Finally, she looked back up at Brennan.

"My parents were separated by the Berlin Wall, sir. I took a personal interest in the matter and researched everything I could find on the Cold War. I could ace any test you have on the subject right now."

"I don't doubt that." Brennan sized up the petite redhead who looked uncomfortable with the attention she was receiving. "I'm sure your parents are an invaluable source of information for you."

Natasha all but shut down. Her breathing hitched and all other movement ceased. She could have been a statue if they all hadn't heard her talk and seen her move. Natasha could feel her consciousness withdrawing, leaving her to cower in the dark hole of her mind. It was impossible to get through to her when that happened.

_No. I can't do that right now. Later. Compartmentalize, Natasha._

She took a deep, shaky breath and forced herself to reestablish eye contact with Brennan. He was watching her, confused at her lack of answer.

"My parents are dead, sir." She told him flatly, masking the anger and pain that flared up at the thought of her parents.

_I knew this was a bad idea._

"Oh…" Brennan seemed to be at a loss for words. "Uh, well…since you know the material so well, why don't you step outside for a short break while I work with the rest of the class?"

Grateful for the escape, Natasha pushed back her chair and fled the room, leaving her books and backpack; she would come back before class was over. She kept her head down to hide the tears that burned her eyes as she tried to remember the correct way to get outside. As a result, she wasn't really paying attention to what was in front of her, which was why she turned a corner and suddenly rammed into a shorter man in a crisp suit.

"Oh!" he exclaimed. Natasha jumped back and kept her head down, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks.

"Excuse me," she murmured, not making eye contact as she tried to push past the man.

"Not so fast, young lady." His voice was somehow kind and stern at the same time. "Where's your hall pass?"

"Hall pass?" Instinctively, Natasha looked up, forgetting that she was supposed to be hiding the tears by keeping her head down. The man's eyes were just as kind as his voice had been and the strict ridges of his face relaxed into concern when he took in her clearly distraught state.

"Yes, everyone needs to have a hall pass to be in the halls during class time," he explained, "but it seems like there might have been some extenuating circumstances. Why don't you come in here and talk to me?" He gestured to an empty classroom and they stepped inside. The man shut the door behind them as Natasha took a seat on top of one of the many desks.

"Why don't we start with your name?" asked the man, coming over to lean on the edge of the desk across from Natasha.

"Natasha Romanoff," she mumbled, certain that she was about to get a reprimand.

"Well, Natasha, my name is Mr. Coulson, but you can just call me Coulson; most people do." Coulson smiled that same warm smile and the knot that had tightened in Natasha's chest during the class discussion loosened the tiniest bit.

"I take it that, since you didn't know about the hall passes, that you must be new here."

Natasha nodded, still waiting for the punishment to come. "It's my first day," she finally said.

Coulson nodded as if he had expected that, and then, "You're not in trouble Natasha."

"But I don't have a hall pass," she said, confused. When you broke the rules, you got punished. That was how the world worked.

"You're new and you didn't know. It was your teacher's fault for letting you go without one. Speaking of which, what class are you supposed to be in right now?"

"U.S. History with Brennan," Natasha told him, tears still slipping out of her eyes every now and then. "Why am I here if I'm not in trouble?"

"I don't know if you noticed, Natasha, but you look really upset." Natasha cracked a watery smile and Coulson grinned. "I thought you might want an ear to talk to. I mean, only if you want to, if it would make you feel better."

Natasha bit her lip. She wasn't really the sharing type; there hadn't ever really been anyone to share with. The orphanage and her slew of foster homes hadn't exactly been a mine of trustworthy people. But there was something about this Mr. Coulson, something that she couldn't quite put her finger on, and it made her want to trust him right away.

"We were talking about the Cold War in class," she told him quietly. "I have some personal connections and I couldn't keep it together."

Coulson didn't utter a single word, didn't look at her with pity, or try to understand her pain. Natasha felt a rush of gratitude; she _hated_ pity, no matter what it was for. Swallowing thickly, she pushed on in her story.

"My parents had recently moved to Germany. My father was a low-ranking Russian government official, but he was starting to have some misgivings about the whole operation. When the Berlin Wall was erected, he and my mother were caught on the East Side."

Coulson maintained a completely impassive mask, waiting for Natasha to regain control. The redhead closed her eyes and took a deep breath, steeling herself to tell what came next.

"In May of 1988, my father devised a plan. He had a friend who could smuggle my mother out and get her to America. He knew that he would eventually be called back to Russia for work and he planned to join her once that happened. They didn't know then…"

Coulson moved over and stood next to Natasha, setting a hand on her shoulder and silently lending her some strength. The tears were coming faster and heavier now and Natasha could barely force the words out.

"They didn't know that she was pregnant. If they had…" Natasha shook her head. It was a path she had gone down in her memory far too many times. "The Russian government figured out that my father wasn't fully committed to the cause anymore. The next time they called him out for work…they killed him."

Coulson's breath caught, but from what Natasha could see through her blurry vision, he didn't look too surprised.

"They reported it as an accident." Natasha laughed bitterly, choking a little on her tears. "But brand new planes don't just crash unless they've been tampered with." She finally brushed at her cheeks, only to have the tears replaced with fresh ones.

"My mother made it to America. When she figured out that she was pregnant, she found a place in a woman's shelter. They taught her English and they helped her through the pregnancy. I was born in January, 1989, nine months before the Wall came down."

The story was almost over now and Natasha could feel a strange lightness in her chest. She fiddled with the ends of her hair, a nervous habit she had developed.

"I was about three when the shelter caught fire," she whispered. "My mom left me outside and went back in to help the others. She never came back out."

Coulson's grip on Natasha's shoulder was almost painful, but she honestly didn't care. It felt _so good_ to finally have someone to share the burden with, someone else who at least knew about the horrors of her past. She sniffed and rubbed at her eyes.

"Well, the shelter couldn't afford to keep a three-year-old all by herself and so I entered the foster system." Natasha gave a little shrug. "And here I am now."

Coulson nodded slowly and finally offered her a small, sad, smile. "Do you feel better Natasha?"

Natasha thought about the question. The pain was still there, that constant ache that would never go away, but it felt less sharp, maybe a little faded and she nodded. "I think so."

"I'm glad," said Coulson, beaming at her. "And I want you to know that my door is always open if you want to stop in and say hi. It's room 105, right next to the main office."

"What do you teach?" asked Natasha, curious. Coulson smiled at her and gently guided her to the door.

"I don't teach classes, Natasha," he said, smiling. "Isn't it obvious? I'm the school guidance counselor."

They stepped out into the hall, Natasha wondering why she didn't figure that out sooner. A vaguely familiar blond figure was walking down the hall away from them.

"Steve!" called Coulson. The figure turned around and looked visibly relieved when he caught sight of the pair of them. He jogged down to where they were waiting, shooting Natasha a guilty look.

"I was wondering where you went. Mr. Brennan sent me to get you. We're going to assign partners for the project now."

"I'll leave you here," Coulson told her and Natasha's stomach dropped like a pound of bricks. "Remember, door's open, anytime you like." He walked away in the opposite direction of their class and Natasha turned to Steve, waiting for him to start walking them back to her own little slice of hell.

* * *

"So…" Steve broke the awkward silence. "What do you think of this place?"

"It sucks," said Natasha flatly. "And you don't have to pretend to be nice to me. I know that kids like you don't like kids like me."

Steve looked surprised and a tiny bit insulted. "Hey, it's not so bad. And I'm not pretending. What do you mean 'kids like me'?"

"Stupid, stuck up, cocky, conceited, popular kids who think they're hot stuff just because they play sports and they treat everyone else like they aren't worth Jack,"; said Natasha bitterly.

"You're very quick to judge," commented Steve. "Most people think I'm a rather nice guy."

"Yeah well, I guess I must've made friends with the only two who don't," muttered Natasha.

"Oh." Steve sighed tiredly. "I guess you already met Carrie and Terrence."

"Yeah so pardon me if I don't have the highest opinion of you," Natasha told him, "But from what they told me about you and your new _friends_, you guys aren't the nicest bunch."

"You shouldn't believe everything Carrie tells you just because she was the first person to talk to you here. She's bitter."

"With good reason," responded Natasha, cocking an eyebrow up at Steve. "Unless you _didn't_ ditch her and Terrence for this other group of so-called friends?"

Steve rolled his eyes. "Oh, that's rich. She loves to tell that side of the story." He turned them left into the hall where their classroom was.

"You said I judge quickly." Natasha stared down at her hands. "You're right. Sometimes _too_ quickly." She looked up and set her jaw firmly. "So here's your chance. Change my mind. Prove to me exactly why I shouldn't believe everything Carrie says. I'd say you have about 30 seconds before we reach the door."

"Carrie and I have known each other since kindergarten." Steve launched right into his story, capitalizing on Natasha's window of opportunity. "We've always been best friends. Terrence moved here in third grade; we sort of adopted him into our trio."

"Then, early last year, in tenth grade, she told me that she's had a crush on me since fifth grade." A blush heated up Steve's cheeks. "Carrie was like a sister to me, and I told her so. She took it hard. Said we could still be friends, but she was really awkward after that."

Natasha tilted her head to the side, trying to figure out if Steve was lying or not. His eyes were wide and open, his body language relaxed. He certainly didn't look like he was lying.

"So I took up sports as an excuse to not have to deal with the tension. I did cross country, basketball, baseball, and track. The last two took some wrangling because they're in the same quarter. I saw less and less of Carrie and Terrence, and more and more of my sports friends." Steve paused for a breath. They were nearly to the door now, but their pace had slowed considerably the closer they got.

"I met Tony on the cross-country team, Clint on the baseball team. Sharon was a cheerleader, but she does track in the spring instead of cheer and that's when I met her. We're both sprinters. Sharon and I started dated mid-spring last year." Steve pursed his lips together. "Sharon and Carrie used to be sort of friends and I guess that was the final straw for Carrie. She saw it as some sort of betrayal. She started ignoring me and pretty soon I stopped trying to talk to her." He looked over at her and raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't you, if one of your best friends suddenly hated you?"

"I wouldn't know," responded Natasha softly. "I've never had a best friend."

Steve seemed speechless for a moment, but the period of weakness had passed and the serious, if shy, Natasha was back in place by the time he found his voice again.

"I've already passed judgment on your friends, Steve," she said calmly, "and it'll take a miracle to change my mind. But you…" she trailed off, looking at him quizzically. "I'm really not sure what to think about you now." With that, she turned the door handle and reentered the classroom. Steve scratched his head and shrugged. Natasha was a mystery and solving it, well, that was more than any of them could do alone.

* * *

"Ah, Miss Romanoff, Mister Rodgers." Brennan eyed them warily as they both returned to the classroom. "We just finished assigning partners."

Natasha slipped into her seat without comment. It didn't really matter who her partner was; she would probably end up doing most of the work anyway. In her experience, that was how group or partner projects always ended.

"Rodgers, you will be working with Miss Carter," continued Brennan.

"Surprise, surprise," muttered a voice from back by where Steve had gone to sit. The pretty blonde girl that had been walking with Steve earlier shot him a dazzling smile.

_That's Sharon then._

"Miss Romanoff, you will have the _pleasure_ of collaborating with Mister Barton." Brennan peered at her over his wire-rimmed glasses. Natasha could feel every eye in the classroom on her and a tense hatred was bubbling just under the surface of the room's atmosphere. "Hopefully, you can teach him something." Brennan's eyes slid from Natasha to Barton. "It would be such a displeasure for Mister Barton to fail U.S. History _again_."

Barton rolled his eyes, his arm slung around the pretty blonde sitting next to him. "Not likely," he muttered. Finally, the bell rang, signaling the end of the period. There was a frantic rustling of papers being shoved away and for once, Natasha joined in. She wanted nothing more than to be out of this class. To her surprise, she found Carrie and Terrence waiting for her just outside the door.

"Hey!" said Carrie brightly. Her grin faded as she took in Natasha's red eyes and somber expression. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Natasha shook her head and offered the pair a small smile. "Just some…personal issues, that's all."

Carrie hesitated for a moment and then she pulled Natasha into a hug. The redhead stiffened at first before relaxing into the embrace. When Carrie finally pulled back she sent a distasteful look at something over Natasha's shoulder. Natasha glanced behind her and saw Barton and his friends leaving the classroom.

"Dealing with them couldn't have helped." Carrie wrinkled her nose as Steve caught Natasha's eye. Natasha maintained a passive face, but Steve gave Sharon's hand a squeeze before detaching himself from the group and coming over to Natasha and her new friends.

"What do you want, Rodgers?" spat Carrie, glaring at him. Steve ignored her, focusing instead on Natasha.

"It looks like you're going to have to revise your opinions of us."

"I don't see why a partner project would cause such a thing," replied Natasha calmly.

"Barton never goes very long without being with one of us," Steve informed her. Natasha shrugged casually.

"He'll learn," she said simply. Steve raised his eyebrows at her.

"Good luck with that." Natasha looked off down the hall and saw Sharon watching them. She nodded toward the blonde and looked back at Steve.

"You better go," she said softly, "Your friends are waiting for you."

Steve shot her one last confused and almost conflicted look before turning away and hurrying off to join his girlfriend. Carrie watched until he was out of sight and then she watched the spot where he had been. Finally, Terrence tugged on her sleeve.

"Carrie, we need to go or we're gonna be late."

"Right." She tore her eyes from the empty hallway and refocused on Natasha. "What's your next class?"

"Uhmm…" Natasha pulled out the slightly crumpled schedule from her back pocket. "AP Shakespeare with McGloccen."

"No way!" squealed Carrie and Terrence beamed. "That's what we have!"

"Perfect," said Natasha quietly. Carrie linked her arm through Natasha's.

"C'mon," said the brunette as Terrence fell into step on her other side. "We'll show you the way."


	3. Who Wouldn't Wanna Be Me?

**A/N: Here we are! Another chapter up, a bit faster than the last one:) But don't get too excited, I start school on Thursday and my updates might take some more time. Hopefully it won't be too much of a struggle to do homework and write at the same time, but no promises. Anyway, they finally get to talk to each other in this chapter! Hope you like it and as always, feedback is much appreciated:)**

* * *

**Chapter 3: Who Wouldn't Wanna Be Me?**

Relief spread through Natasha when sixth period finally came.

_The day is almost over_

Blessedly, she had seen neither hide nor hair of Barton, Steve, or any of their friends since second period. Her English teacher Mrs. Runa was one of Natasha's favorites so far and she had even managed to suffer through Math Analysis and Spanish. Now she just had to face the monster that was Chemistry and she would be free to go home. Unfortunately, the minute she walked into Mr. Chasey's classroom, Natasha knew that this class wasn't going to go over easily. The room was set up with tables that seated the students in clusters of four. All the seats were filled, so the redhead made her way towards the teacher's desk, pointedly keeping her head down. Natasha pretended not to notice that the two clusters in the middle of the room were seating the very people she had been trying to avoid. She felt a pair of eyes watching her and knew without looking that it was Steve.

No one else would bother with her.

Natasha snuck a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. He was sitting next to Sharon (of course), along with a brunette, who was already paging through the textbook, and the boy Bruce from first period. A tiny breath escaped Natasha as she realized there was someone halfway decent in this class. She reached the teacher's desk and finally looked up. Mr. Chasey was a little taller than average and he had fair colored hair that was neatly trimmed. His green eyes were kind, but questioning as he offered her a smile.

"My name is Natasha," she said in a very quiet voice. "This is my first day here."

Chasey nodded and cast a glance around the room. He pursed his lips upon discovering that the school had overfilled his class yet again. Signing, he gestured to a chair off to the side.

"Why don't you take that chair and just sit at...that table there, on the end."

Dread filed Natasha's stomach when she followed Chasey's finger and saw him pointing at Steve's table. Resigned and unable to explain her reluctance to sit there, Natasha grabbed the chair and set it down on the end between Bruce and Sharon.

"Hey Natasha!" said Bruce with a grin. Surprise jolted Natasha; she hadn't expected him to remember her name.

"Hi Bruce," she answered tentatively.

"Fancy seeing you here," commented Steve drily. Natasha glanced over at him and gave him a quick nod, looking away as fast as she could. Sharon was watching her impassively and the brunette was still intensely focused on the chemistry textbook.

"This is Jane," said Steve, completely ignoring the tension-infused confusion that was rolling off both Natasha and Bruce at the popular boy's attempt to make conversation. "She's going to be some asterpyschosis person or something."

"_Astrophysicist,_ Steve," said Jane, looking up for less than a second to frown at the blond. Steve just smiled and shrugged.

"Right, that."

"So Natasha," interjected Bruce, taking advantage of the momentary silence, "How has your first day been going?"

Natasha shifted in her seat, a little uncomfortable with the attention. She could feel everyone's eyes on her, Jane being the only exception, even though Natasha was staring down at her notebook. Sharon's gaze unnerved her because it was a look that she had seen many times; it was just usually reflected back at her in the mirror. It was a look that told Natasha that Sharon was silently watching everything that she did and forming an opinion as she went.

_But why do I even care?_

"It's going okay," she answered Bruce, as truthfully as she could. "School is school, I guess, no matter where you go."

"Mhm." Bruce looked like he wanted to say more, but he was interrupted by the bell. Natasha sighed and chewed a little on the eraser of her pencil, trying not to think of anything but chemistry as Mr. Chasey called the class to order.

* * *

Clint watched the new girl flee Brennan's classroom in a flurry of tears and red hair. Her last words were hanging over the classroom like a dark cloud. Brennan stared at the door for a few seconds before he managed to regain his composure

"Alright," he finally said, "Who can tell me which U.S. Presidents served during the Cold War and what their successes and failures were?"

Clint zoned out like he always did as Brennan started lecturing on Ronald Reagan and the Berlin Wall. But his mind didn't wander to the usual places (How great Bobbi's ass looked in those jeans, who their next football game was against, the trouble he and Tony could cause after school). Instead his focus drifted back to the new girl...Natalie?

_Oh I don't know. Why do I even care?_

That was the question Clint had been asking himself all day. The new girl was everything that Clint usually looked down upon. She was a junior, she volunteered information in class, she had made friends with the losers without even giving the popular crowd a shot, and then, to top it all off, she completely lost control in the middle of class. Normal Clint would've already leaned over and made a snarky remark about it to Tony, but this Clint couldn't seem to shake the inexplicable draw he felt, the wanting get closer the new girl, to get to know her better.

But she was a nobody, a bottom feeder on the social ladder, everything that Clint actively tried not to be. He mentally shook himself. The solution was to just ignore her. These weird thoughts would go away the next time he saw her talking to her loser friends or when he got back out on the football field. He was a senior and after he graduated, she wouldn't be a problem at all.

Barton turned a blind eye the fact that he was avoiding the new girl for all the same reasons that people used to avoid him.

"_Mister Barton_!"

Clint's head snapped up and he met Brennan's harsh glare. "Yeah?"

"I'm so honored that you finally deemed us worthy of your full and undivided attention," said Brennan distastefully. "As I was saying, your partner for this quarter's project will be Miss Romanoff."

A surprised noise escaped Clint's throat and he winced involuntarily. Tony groaned sympathetically and Bobbi lightly rubbed Clint's leg. Brennan was wearing a satisfied smirk, as if he knew that he had ruined all of Clint's plans with those ten words.

"Great." Sarcasm rang in every word and Clint sighed dramatically. Brennan moved on down the list and Clint lapsed back into his inattentive state.

He was desperately trying to stamp out the little monster in his chest that was leaping excitedly about the prospect of spending time with the new girl.

* * *

It seemed to Natasha that the school staff had delayed the bell so that she would be forced to endure this terrible day for extra time. When the sound finally reverberated through the halls, she wasted no time hesitating. Shoving her notebook into her backpack, Natasha started to bolt for the door. Unfortunately, the world had other plans.

"Natasha?"

The red head sighed, but her conscience wouldn't let her ignore Steve. She stopped and turned around, an eye in the storm of people rushing from the classroom.

"What is it Steve?"

The blond looked embarrassed and, behind him, Sharon was still wearing that same impassive mask that she had been eyeing Natasha with all hour. Natasha crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow, waiting for Steve to answer her question.

"Well, um, actually, I have a favor to ask…" Steve rubbed the back of his neck, a blush creeping up under his hand.

"Then ask it," snapped Natasha, "So I can go home."

"Barton asked me to get your phone number so he can text you about the project," blurted Steve.

That was the breaking point for Natasha.

"What the heck!" She set her books down on a desk with a snap. Natasha's sharp green eyes turned ice cold and she cut through Steve with a glare. "Look, I have had a _terrible_ day. I am getting pity left and right and I had to talk about my dead parents in class!" Breath hissed out of Natasha's nostrils and she advanced a few steps, bordering right on the edge of invading Steve's personal space. He scooted back, bumping into the desk behind him in his haste. "I don't care if you hang out with him, that's your business. But if Barton wants to talk to me about _our_ group project, then _he_ can come talk to me, instead of sending you." Natasha let out a final huff of air and snatched up the books from where she had dropped them. Steve was staring at her, wide-eyed. He obviously hadn't expected such an explosion from the shy, quiet redhead. Natasha was a little surprised herself.

In her defense, it really had been a horrid day.

"And you might want to reconsider your choice in friends if one of yours is sending you on errands," she added, glancing back over her shoulder as she left. She didn't stay to see Steve gaping after her like a fish out of water, didn't stay to wait for him to collect his wits and apologize or whatever he would do. The last thing that Natasha saw before she vanished was that the blonde girl behind Steve had finally broken her impassive mask, clearly showing her judgment of Natasha.

Sharon had never worn a bigger, brighter smile.

* * *

Natasha crossed the lawn, heading towards the path that would take her back to her house. She was desperately trying to keep her head down and ignore the shouts from off to her right, but she couldn't help the purely human instinct that caused her to glance over and, subsequently, stop dead in her tracks.

The shouts were coming from a small group, bunched together and bearing down on a short, sort of scrawny boy, one that Natasha recognized. Unfortunately, she recognized the leaders of the mini mob as well. She deliberated for a moment, her gut tugging at her to just go home and her mind screaming that she better not walk away. Natasha threw her head back and groaned before turning and walking purposefully towards the incident. Her heart was hammering in her chest-this wasn't something she would normally do. Maybe it was the rough day, or maybe it was the anger still coursing through her from what had happened with Steve, but Natasha was feeling uncharacteristically fired up. Her palms were sweating lightly but Natasha ignored her jittery nerves. She broke through the crowd of people and planted herself firmly in front of Bruce. Crossing her arms, Natasha stared up into the stormy blue eyes of Clint Barton, who looked momentarily surprised. Off to his right was Anthony, who was sneering at her.

"You know, I always thought that jocks bullying nerds for their pocket money was a sick joke, but apparently you like to make it a sick reality."

"What do you want, new girl?" Barton spoke after a quick hesitation. His face was suddenly stiff, as if he was having to work to hold his scornful expression in place.

"Wrong." Natasha pierced him with her eyes, trying to ignore the entrancing depths of his. "What do _you_ want, Barton?"

"He wants you to go away," said Tony disdainfully.

"Wrong," snapped Natasha again. "According to Rodgers, Barton wants my phone number. But he's also apparently too much of an asshole to come and ask me for it himself."

A few of the people that had formed behind Barton shifted uncomfortably and eyed him, a couple of nervous chuckles escaping them while they waited for his retort. Barton was working his jaw, looking rather at a loss for words. Natasha didn't bother giving him a chance.

"When you work up the courage to come talk to a shy, little, junior girl, then maybe you can have my number." Natasha spun around and grabbed Bruce's arm. "C'mon Bruce, we're leaving." She dragged him away from the scene, leaving a group of shell-shocked seniors in her wake. Out of the corner of her eye, Natasha caught sight of a man in a suit who had obviously been on his way to diffuse the situation when Natasha had intervened. She almost missed him raising a hand and discreetly waving at her, but there was one thing that Natasha didn't miss.

Coulson was beaming at her.

* * *

"Holy crap!" At the sound of Carrie's voice, Natasha slowed her pace and stopped ripping Bruce's arm out. They both turned around to greet Carrie and Terrence as the pair rushed up.

"Did you really just do that?" demanded Carrie, staring wide-eyed at Natasha.

"If you mean did I just put an idiot well in his place, then yeah, I did."

"That idiot was _Clint Barton_, most popular senior at this school," pointed out Terrence.

"Doesn't make him any less of an idiot," said Natasha, slowly starting to walk toward her house again. "If anything it makes him more of one."

Carrie snorted and both the boys grinned. Bruce dragged a hand through his messy hair.

"Hey, uh, thanks for that," he stammered out. Natasha tossed him a grin over her shoulder.

"No problem. I really needed to blow off some steam. I don't usually take the full on confrontation option."

"Yeah, I didn't really pin you as a front line soldier," commented Terrence. Natasha paused to consider his words.

"I guess not. I think I'd be more of a spy."

"Well, soldier or spy, we're all going to get coffee," declared Carrie. She glanced over at Natasha. "You in?"

The red head hesitated. She really wanted nothing more than to go home and collapse with a blanket, some tea, and a book. But on the other hand, she had a whole hour until she had to babysit Tina and for the first time in a long while she could go somewhere with friends. She smiled and let herself be a normal teenager for once.

"Sure, I'm in."

* * *

"…and then he asks me if I've ever seen an elephant birth!" They all broke down in laughter as Carrie reached the punch line of her story. Natasha glanced out the window, sipping her tea, and caught sight of something that made her freeze.

"I mean, who asks that?" Carrie snorted and shook her head. "What do you think Natasha?"

Natasha didn't answer, her eyes glued on the window. "Natasha? Are you okay?"

She finally ripped her eyes away and looked back at her friends. "Um, yeah, that's great Carrie. Look, I really need to go. Sorry." Without another word, Natasha grabbed her backpack and hurried out the door, leaving her new friends confused and a little hurt. Her eyes found him again, the person that she had seen from the window, and this time he was looking right at her. Clint Barton started walking towards her and Natasha stepped quickly toward the brick wall that was just out of sight from the coffee shop.

"Hey, new girl!"

Natasha spun around as Barton shouted at her. She wasn't feeling that same fiery determination that she had felt earlier, but she sure wasn't going to let him walk all over her. She crossed her arms and glared at him.

"I actually have a name," she snapped. Barton stopped short, taken aback.

"I don't know it," he replied shortly.

"Obviously." Barton looked at her expectantly. "Would you like to ask me something?"

The jock sighed. "What's your name?"

"Natasha," she said rolling her eyes. "There now, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

"Just give me your phone number," Barton said bitingly. Natasha raised an eyebrow at him. He pursed his lips and sighed again.

"Natasha, could I please have your phone number so that we can work on our group project?"

"Better," allowed Natasha. "And it's 4258769934." Barton punched the number into his phone and looked back up uncertainly.

"Are we done now?" asked Natasha. Barton nodded hurriedly and Natasha spun around, storming away from what, although she didn't know it yet, would become a very recurring problem.

* * *

Barton watched Natasha go, still holding his phone. The shock of the afternoon was still reverberating through his veins.

_What the heck even happened?_

The new girl-Natasha-had seemed reserved, shy even. But for some reason, she had taken on him, the most popular guy in school, simply because he had been teasing one of her new friends.

_Maybe it's not such a stretch for me to be interested in her._

Barton snorted and shook his head. Who was he kidding? He couldn't be interested in her; Bobbi would rip her to shreds.

_Is that really such a good thing?_

Shaking his head, Barton smacked the side of his face lightly, trying to knock his brain back into place.

_It doesn't matter. I'm going to get through this project and life will go back to normal._

But as he headed off to get to football practice, Clint couldn't shake the feeling that he was completely, irreversibly wrong.

* * *

Natasha sagged against the door, all the energy draining out of her at once. She couldn't remember another first day of school being so incredibly exhausting, physically and emotionally. Slowly, she forced herself to move forward and into her tiny room. Natasha dropped her books and backpack on the floor and pressed her hands to the side of her head, trying to clear her muddled mind.

_I need to run._

A quick glance at her watch told her that she had 20 minutes before Tina would be home, just enough time to get a short jog in. Natasha dug a pair of running shorts and a tank top out of her dresser and slid on some sneakers. She tied her hair up in a ponytail as she made her way to the door, locking it behind her. A blessed relief washed through her veins as she slid into the comfortable rhythm that was her feet pounding on the pavement and the burn in her muscles. She tried to get her mind into the numb state that meant that she wouldn't have to think, but her brain had other ideas.

She couldn't stop thinking about his eyes.

They were tantalizing, teasing, and unforgivingly cold. They were the eyes that had intimidated countless underclassmen. There was no good reason for her to be dwelling on them, no reason at all. But she could've sworn that she saw something change, a heartbeat where they weren't the eyes of Clint Barton, popular senior idiot. It was a ridiculous thought really; she knew that there was never anything more to the shallow popular kids than their surface personalities. She had learned that the hard way. But still, her mind wouldn't stop pulling her back to the flash of uncertainty, the twist of pain that she _knew_ she had seen in the stormy blue depths when they were matching glare for glare. She was trying her best to ignore the faint cry for help that had echoed in his gaze when no one was watching except for her but, for some unfathomable reason, she just _couldn't._ Natasha wasn't really a naturally compassionate person, but she always tried to help when there was hurt. It was as though by helping others she could ease the constant ache that came from her past.

_What if there really is a part of Clint Barton that needs help?_

Natasha stamped on that thought almost as fast as it came into being. She helped people that needed her help and Clint Barton had been more than clear that he didn't need anything from her. She was obviously overthinking the whole situation. And then there was Steve, who she really couldn't figure out. He seemed polite, nice even, two characteristics that Natasha wouldn't have thought to associate with any of Barton's friends. Was it possible that Steve had seen whatever it was that Natasha had seen and that was why he stuck with Barton?

_No,_ Natasha firmly told herself, _Steve is his friend because they play sports together, nothing more. Clint Barton is not some kicked puppy that needs your help. Odds are, after this project, you won't even talk to him anymore. _

Natasha cemented the decision in her mind, squashing the doubting voices in the very back of her head. She rounded the corner onto the street where she was living now, her mind considerably clearer than it had been when she started. Natasha could just make out a yellow blob at the other end of the street and a grin appeared on her face. She jogged up to the house and sat down on the steps seconds before the bus pulled up. A small, five-year-old girl with straight brown hair, unusually bright blue eyes, and one missing tooth jumped out of the vehicle, a purple backpack hanging off her little shoulders.

"Tasha!" cried the little girl and Natasha leapt up and met Tina halfway down the path, scooping her up in a big hug.

"Hi Tina." A gush of affection rushed out of Natasha as the young girl squeezed her tight. The red head had grown unusually fond of Tina. They spent a lot of time together and the little girl had the most irresistible smile. Tina loved having Natasha in the house, loved all the things they got to do together. Natasha shifted the kid onto her hip and relaxed for the first time all day.

"Will you paint my nails, Tasha?"

Natasha couldn't help the grin that crept across her face. "How about a snack first?"

"And then nails after?" The hopefulness in Tina's face was practically overwhelming.

"Of course," Natasha assured her. Tina squealed and clapped her hands together excitedly as Natasha carried her into the house.

_Problems be damned,_ Natasha thought with a smile, _It can all wait until tomorrow_.

* * *

Fifteen minutes after football practice, Clint was sitting in his truck, staring at his phone. His finger was hovering over the send button and he couldn't figure out why he was hesitating. She had given him the number; he was well within his rights to text her and ask about the project.

So why couldn't he send the message?

_Because I don't want to ask about the project. _

It was probably too early to send her a text about the project anyway. He should wait a couple days. Normal Clint Barton wouldn't have even been thinking about his history project right now. He'd be thinking about his movie night with Bobbi tonight that wasn't going to include very many movies.

_Why am I letting this girl mess with my head?_

Barton determinedly canceled the message and shoved his phone in his pocket. His life was not going to change just because of some insolent little junior. Clint Barton was in control and he was going to stay that way. Pursing his lips and ignoring the lingering doubts, Clint started his truck with the usual roar and sped away, running from the difficulties that had plagued him all day.

But no matter what he tried, he couldn't outrun his own thoughts and he couldn't control the way that they wouldn't stop straying back to that insolent little junior.

* * *

**Well, what'd you think? Also, if there are any perspectives that I've written from that you'd like to read more of, feel free to let me know and I'll try and work it in to the story:) Okay, that's all. Bye!**


	4. The Cowboy In Me

**Hey look, I'm back! It's been a little while and I'm really sorry about that, but school hit me like a ton of bricks and ugh homework is the bane of my existence. Anyway, this chapter is a touch longer than the rest and the tide of the story is slowly starting to turn. Slowly, but it is happening:) I hope to have the next chapter up a little quicker than this one, but no promises! Thanks for being amazing readers and as always, I definitely appreciate your feedback and ideas (some of them have helped shape this story:)) Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 4: The Cowboy In Me**

*blip*

Natasha rolled over, her slumber just barely disturbed by the notification from her phone. Her sleep muddled brain debated the pros and cons of checking who the message was from. On one hand, it required sliding over and expending energy, but on the other hand, it might be one of her friends asking for help or something. Natasha internally cursed her conscience, but the annoying blinking of the green notification light won out in the end. She rolled over again and tapped the screen, giving her eyes a moment to adjust before punching in her password. An unknown number flashed on the screen, eliciting a frown from Natasha.

[Text: Unknown Number]: so what are we doing that project on?

Natasha groaned, squinted at the clock and cringed.

_What the hell-it's three in the morning!_

She shoved her face into her pillow. She let the phone fall back against her nightstand as a dozen different curses ran through her head, half of them directed at Barton for waking her up and the other half at Brennan for sticking her with the idiot. She pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and pointer finger, letting a huff of air escape her lips. The last dregs of sleepiness were slowly dissipating and Natasha knew that the coming day would be hell because of it.

_Dammit Barton._

For a brief moment Natasha considered just ignoring the text and fetching some sleeping pills to help lull her body back into blissful unconsciousness. After all, Barton couldn't seriously be expecting an answer from her at _three in the morning_. But she didn't really want to take the sleeping pills, didn't want to put herself in a drugged sleep when waking up was the only escape from her own mind, not to mention that they would take forever to wear off in the morning. Resigned to staring up at the dark ceiling for three hours, Natasha reluctantly grabbed her phone and typed out a quick reply.

[Text: Me]: Are we really going to have this conversation at three in the morning?

Her conscience slightly mollified and her body protesting her consciousness, Natasha fell back against the pillows and pulled the blankets up to her chin. The typical November chill was starting to set in in this little town and the heat in Natasha's room wasn't exactly great. Normally, she wouldn't mind the cold so much; actually, she usually reveled in it. There just seemed to be something about the cold here that was different then the cold at the orphanage had been, but Natasha couldn't quite put a finger on what it was. Fortunately (or not, depending on how you looked at it), she didn't have to ponder for very long.

_*blip*_

[Text: God What An Idiot]: do you have something better to do?

Natasha hissed at the phone, resisting the urge to throw it across the room. This _jerk_ actually thought that the best use of her time at _three in the morning_ was to talk to him.

_Conceited much? Someone needs to bring him down a few pegs._

Pursing her lips, Natasha tapped out a reply, having to revise several words as her anger made her hit the wrong keys.

[Text: Me]: Ever heard of sleeping?

Natasha focused on funneling her anger. It was never a good thing to let it out of control; she had learned that the hard way a few years back. She snatched the thick sketchbook and pencil from the nightstand and flipped to a blank page. She forced herself to make slow, steady strokes, rather than the short, hard ones that her brain was pushing for. With no design specifically in mind, Natasha just let her hand wander freely over the paper. It was something she loved to do; to not even look at the paper while she was drawing, but rather, to let her hands pick an image from her subconscious and draw that with only her memory for reference. The first few times that she had tried it, she had ended up with a mess of tangled scribbles in varying degrees of shading and pressure. Lately though, she had improved greatly and, thought Natasha, at least if she ever went blind she would still be able to draw.

_*blip*_

[Text: God What An Idiot]: well obviously neither of us is doing that.

Exasperation had taken the place of Natasha's fury. Barton couldn't possibly be as thick as his texts were making him out to be. The redhead rolled her eyes and set down her pencil, careful not to look at the drawing in front of her yet, and paused to think of a semi-civil answer.

[Text: Me]: I was, until your text woke me up. Ever consider that?

She retrieved her pencil and continued on the drawing, but didn't get very far before Barton replied.

*_blip*_

[Text: God What An Idiot]: oh. well never mind then.

Natasha sighed heavily and pressed a hand to her forehead. She could feel her resistance faltering, knew that she was probably going to give in and talk to the moron, despite also knowing that if she let it slide once, he was bound to do it again.

_Ugh._

[Text: Me]: Too late for that, I'm up now. But in the future, try to stick to considering your homework topics at a more reasonable hour. What ideas do you have for the project?

_I'm probably-no scratch that-I'm definitely going to regret this._

_*blip*_

[Text: God What An Idiot]: uh actually none.

Natasha snorted. Barton would be the kind to wake her up at three in the morning just to tell her that he had no ideas.

[Text: Me]: Well, isn't that a shocker.

It wasn't the kind of thing she would normally say, especially not when she knew that she was going to have to put up with the person she was saying it to for an extended period of time, but she was willing to make an exception in this case.

_*blip*_

[Text: God What An Idiot]: hey im not totally useless

[Text: Me]: Really? Could've fooled me.

Natasha didn't know why she was being so mean; it was completely out of character. There was just something so completely irritating about Barton and she couldn't help but retaliate.

It was a bad habit.

_*blip*_

[Text: God What An Idiot]: watch it, junior. i can make your life hell.

For half a second, Natasha stared at the phone screen, frozen. Her eyes were staring at the words, but her brain was refusing to accept them.

_He did not just say that to me._

As basic motor functions returned, Natasha began to seethe. She focused on the anger so that she wouldn't have to face the stinging that she could feel behind her eyes. Despite her best efforts, her vision started to blur as she punched out a retort.

[Text: Me]: Too late. It already is, idiot.

Natasha's fingers were white against the darkness of her phone, her arm shaking from the effort it took to keep from throwing the device into the wall. Tears were falling freely now and she didn't even try to stop them. They soaked her pillow and the edge of her comforter, sliding down her cheeks and leaving a salty taste on her lips. A few of them fell on her sketchbook, but Natasha still refused to look down, letting her hand wander back to the page.

*_blip*_

[Text: God What An Idiot]: thats a bit melodramatic

*_blip*_

[Text: God What An Idiot]: everyone has crap to deal with

_*blip*_

[Text: God What An Idiot]: are you gonna answer me?

_*blip*_

[Text: God What An Idiot]: look i didnt mean to make you mad

_*blip*_

[Text: God What An Idiot]: just answer me

Natasha's teeth clenched together and her hands formed fists against the sheets. She was not going to deal with this, not now, not ever (after this stupid project was finished). She aimed a punch at one of her extra pillows, picturing Barton's face, and getting a very satisfied feeling from the direct hit she landed on his nose. Breath hissed in and out of her nostrils and Natasha was finally just done. She might not be able to sleep anymore, but she didn't have to put up with him either.

[Text: Me]: This conversation is over. Try and redeem yourself by thinking of a topic before second period.

They hadn't even settled on a topic for their project and Natasha was already sick of Barton's antics. Any positive inclinations she might have had toward him had dissipated rapidly over the course of that one short texting conversation. Clint Barton was a selfish jerk. That was what Natasha had learned today. She dropped her phone upside down so that she couldn't see the annoying flashing of the notification light and finally looked down at her blind sketch. A disbelieving scoff escaped her and a few more tears leaked out of her eyes. Flipping the book shut, Natasha tried to get the image of Clint Barton's eyes, perfectly drawn, out of her head. She sighed, shook her head, and rolled over. Tucking her chin down under the covers, Natasha set about feigning sleep, waiting for her alarm to alert her of the morning.

* * *

Clint had spent more hours than he cared to count staring at his phone, finger hovering over the send button, heart pounding while he tried to figure out what was making it so difficult for him to send this message. It was completely irrational and he knew it. They were partners, it was _required_ that he talk to her. That should make it easier, simpler to send this message, right?

Obviously not.

_The problem, _thought Clint, _is that I don't want to talk to her because I have to. I just want to talk to her. And that scares me to death because it could tear down everything I've built up. _

Scared. Clint Barton, starting varsity quarterback, the most popular boy in school, was scared of some nobody-junior girl.

_I'm pathetic._

Gritting his teeth, Barton steeled himself and tapped the send button, letting out a whoosh of air as the little bubble of a message appeared on the screen. Too late, he looked up and focused on the clock that was beside his bed.

_Oh crap. When did it get to be three in the morning?!_

Anxiety pierced his heart and he jumped up and began pacing back and forth. Every few seconds his eyes darted over to where he had left his phone lying on the bed. It remained frustratingly silent and dark and sweat began to coat his palms. He reached up and dragged his fingers through his short, blonde hair, trying to steady his breathing. The phone continued its stubborn still and quietness, much to Barton's apprehension and exasperation.

_Well, what did you expect? She's probably asleep, like anyone with half a brain would be at three in the morning!_

Barton winced and, before his face had even settled back to normal, his phone chimed, the vibrations buzzing against his comforter. Clint jumped and his hands shook as he reached for the phone, completely and utterly disgusted with himself and the way that he was acting.

_God,_ he thought as he hesitantly keyed in his password, _what's happening to my life?_

* * *

The first thing that Miss Fall noticed about Natasha when she walked into first period the next day was that she was staring determinately hard at the ground. Her porcelain face was controlled neutrality and her straight red hair fell in a curtain on either side of it, blocking her sight like blinkers on a horse. There was a sudden silence when Natasha entered the room, an inexplicable hush that fell over all the students, despite the incessant buzzing that had filled the classroom since the warning bell first rang. Miss Fall glanced up, alarmed at the unusual quiet. From the corner of her eye she saw a deep crimson blush creeping up Bruce's cheeks and Tony staring at Natasha with nothing short of loathing in his expression. Natasha kept her head down, making her way over to her desk between Bruce and Carrie. A pit of worry starting to form in Miss Fall's stomach, the teacher scanned the classroom before she breathed a sigh of relief. Tony was the only one staring at Natasha with such intense hatred; she must have provoked him somehow. The rest of the kids seemed to be regarding the new student with a mixture of respect and uncertainty. Even Barton, whose face was normally a mirror image of Tony's, was contemplating Natasha with what Miss Fall could only describe as curiosity mingled with just a touch of disdain. After a quick nod hello to Carrie, Natasha slid into her seat, right as the final bell rang. The tension in the room was palpable; there was something more to this than Natasha angering Tony, speculated Miss Fall. The entire class shuffled to its feet as the speaker rang out the Pledge of Allegiance and for a moment, Miss Fall lamented her choice in profession; she would have loved to simply spend the entire period dissecting the current classroom atmosphere. The speaker had switched to announcing sports scores and everyone had taken a seat when an idea suddenly sprung into being in Miss Fall's head. She grinned a small, devilish smile and cast an appraising glance around the room.

_Oh this'll be good. Most of them will hate me for it, but it'll be good._

* * *

It was completely a reflex. Everyone else looked up too. It wasn't just him.

At least, that's what Clint told himself.

He tried not to think about the fact that his head had jerked up just a little bit faster than everyone else's, or how he had been glancing at the door every few seconds, or the way his pulse jumped a mile a minute when he finally caught sight of her. When he saw the absolute disgust that Tony was regarding her with, Clint's stomach twisted and something inside of him snapped. Outwardly, all he did was tense up, but on the inside his mind was spiraling out of control. He was Clint Barton, he was in control of every move that everyone made at this school. He was dating the hottest cheerleader on the squad and he was the starting quarterback. He didn't care about underclassmen, didn't care about other people in general. This new girl should not be on his mind at _all_, he shouldn't care whether she showed up to class or not, shouldn't care that she didn't look at him when she walked in, he just shouldn't _care_. Because that was how he got through life, how he lived with the way that he acted.

He didn't care.

But there was something there, something just under the surface. Natasha was hurting, a pain that made her very soul ache. She played it off like it was nothing; she smiled and redirected the conversation onto other people. If he was anyone else, Clint never would have noticed it. But he had far too much experience doing the exact same thing that she was doing to not catch on. By all accounts, he should be able to compartmentalize her. He did it often enough; took the things that he didn't want to think about and shoved them away. Or he simply changed the way that he thought about them. There was just something totally inexplicable that was keeping him from flipping the switch. Clint needed to solve this problem before it consumed him and started to attract unwanted attention. Pursing his lips, Barton dug out his universal pass and waved it at Miss Fall, jumping up and grabbing his backpack as soon as she nodded her assent. Clint Barton had a head full of questions and no way to fix it, so he did what he always did when this happened.

He went to the man with all of the answers.

* * *

_*knock, knock*_

"Come in."

"Hey Coulson." Barton dropped his backpack on the couch just inside the counselor's office and let his shoulders slump. A good portion of the tension dissipated as the young man took a seat in the comfy chair in front of Coulson's desk. The hard, arrogant lines on his face smoothed out, leaving a boyish image behind, one that only Coulson ever got to see on Barton. Coulson, who had been typing away furiously on his computer, pushed back and removed his glasses, offering a smile to Clint.

"What questions can I answer for you today, Mr. Barton? More about the purpose of taking an art class?"

"Not today." Clint shook his head and ran his tongue over his teeth uncertainly. A look of understanding flashed over Coulson's face and he folded his arms, placing his elbows on the desk for balance as he leaned forward.

"It's one of those days?" Barton nodded silently.

"One word conversation?" A slight hesitation, followed by another slight nod. Coulson waited patiently. It was something that they had started the first time that Barton was sent to see him. Clint would say one word about what was bothering him and Coulson would ask a one word question. One time they had done it back and forth for an entire hour. Coulson still considered it one of the most successful sessions he had had with Clint.

"Girl." Coulson cocked his head to the side, chewing on Clint's choice of topic. Sure they had talked about girls before, but Clint was rarely troubled by them.

"Bobbi?" Clint shook his head slowly. His hesitation to answer the question was apparent, but Coulson had time. He wasn't going to let Clint dodge the question. He knew that Barton wouldn't have come here, wouldn't have started the conversation if he wasn't truly troubled by it. Sometimes though, he had to remind Barton of that fact, which meant forcing him to face the problems that he liked to hide.

"Natasha." Coulson's eyes widened slightly. He didn't know all of the students in the school, but he only knew one Natasha, and that was the young girl that he had run into (literally) yesterday. Coulson also happened to know that she had run out of Brennan's second period US history, the same class that Clint was in second period. What he couldn't piece together was why she would be of concern to Barton. After all, she wasn't exactly his type of person, at least not to the rest of the school.

"Why?" Frustration spread across Clint's face and his jaw clenched. Coulson calmly raised his eyebrows, waiting for Clint to regain control. When the anger had mostly faded, Clint sighed, frowning in concentration as he tried to put all of his problems into a single word. Finally, a spark jumped in his eyes.

"Different." Coulson tipped his head to the side, considering Barton's answer. The girl that he had meant certainly hadn't been mainstream, but he had a feeling that wasn't what Barton was getting at. When Clint said different, it meant that there was something about whatever it was (Natasha, in this case) that was out of his control, that he couldn't understand or handle. Coulson had come to realize that when Clint had "those days", the only solution he could think of was to come to Coulson.

"Good?" Clint shook his head emphatically, but a tiny sliver of his denial slipped for half a second and Coulson caught it. Raising an eyebrow, he drew another sigh of frustration from Barton.

"Confusing." Coulson drummed his fingers on the desk. That was understandable, but if it was just a little confusion, Clint would've fixed it on his own, without Coulson. No, there was more to this.

"How?" Barton stared down at his hands that he kept twisting together in his lap. He pinched his lips and scuffed his shoe against the floor.

"Thinking." _Interesting, _thought Coulson. Although it could be construed a number of different ways, the only one that also lined up with frustrating Barton was that the kid simply couldn't stop thinking about this new, unpopular girl. That would be more than enough to aggravate Barton, Coulson certainly knew that. The question then was:

"Stop?" There was no word for Barton's reaction other than complete deflation. Any bit of his tough guy façade that he wore outside of Coulson's office vanished and his face crumpled a bit.

"Tried," he admitted softly. _Ah,_ thought Coulson, _there it is._ That was the root of the problem and they both knew it. Coulson held up the ASL sign for _stop_ and raised his eyebrows at Barton, who nodded.

"So what makes her different from every other person on the planet?" Coulson knew perfectly well that Barton could change the way he thought about things on a whim, which was what made this issue so odd.

"I don't know. I think it's her eyes." The words seemed to fall from Barton's mouth before he even registered them and he looked surprised to have even said them.

"What about them?"

"They hurt." Coulson did the barest of double takes at Barton's choice of words. They were the same ones that Coulson had used to describe Clint the first time that he had ever worked with the boy.

"So why is this a problem?"

"I obviously can't associate with her." For half a second, Clint's popular boy persona slipped back into place. Coulson rolled his eyes.

"Why not?" Coulson asked the question, even if he already knew the answer.

"It's not good for my image." Barton said the words robotically, as if he had simply been conditioned to repeat them whenever Coulson asked. Then again, he had been.

"Oh, that's right. Your image. The one crafted for you by the coach of a sport that you don't even really like, that you only play because it makes you cool, the one that you don't have a passion for. That image." Clint sat across from him, face expressionless, refusing to give in to the argument that the pair of them had countless times. Coulson continued anyway, cocking an eyebrow at Barton.

"Are you still hiding your bow under your bed? Still sneaking out to practice in the woods at night?" That elicited a sort of guilty-but-not-guilty look from Clint, who nodded. "Thought so."

"That's beside the point," said Clint, brushing it off. "What do I _do_, Coulson?"

"No, that's exactly the point. You hide your bow because it's not a 'cool' sport. You hide your interest in a very nice girl because she's not 'cool'. Maybe it's time to be not cool, Clint." Coulson sighed and shrugged. "It's up to you. I'm not saying you should ditch all your friends or break up with your girlfriend or quit the football team. I'm just saying that maybe you could balance all of that with the things that you actually want to do."

"I don't know how to do that." Coulson nodded; he had expected that excuse. Because that's all it was, an excuse.

"All you need is a built in excuse to talk to Natasha. And thanks to Mr. Brennan, it looks like you have one. Get to know her a little better, figure out what it is that draws you to her, and maybe you'll get to know yourself a little better too. Other than that, there isn't much you can do." Coulson offered a sympathetic smile. "Some things are just out of our control, Clint."

Clint sighed, but didn't answer. He glanced at the clock and back at Coulson. "I better go. Thanks, as always."

Coulson nodded, watching sadly as the masks and persona began to fall back into place. Clint stood up straight and his walk took on an arrogant gait. Slipping his glasses back on and returning to the computer, Coulson couldn't help but feel that, although he hadn't left the room, Clint Barton was already gone.

* * *

Something was wrong with Natasha. Carrie was certain of that much. She hadn't known her new friend for very long, but already Carrie had picked up on a few mannerisms. Natasha was naturally quiet and she liked to smile, although she didn't do it very often. She preferred to talk about other people rather than herself and when she was nervous or spacing out she subconsciously drew in the margins of her paper. If there wasn't any paper, then she pressed her wrist to her lips and rested her fingers on her cheek or tightened them into a fist. So it didn't surprise Carrie that she and Terrence were the ones supplying most of the conversation while they walked to second period, but she was worried that Natasha wasn't even nodding or 'mhming' every few seconds. The redhead was staring at the ground, her eyes almost vacant and dark circles present under her eyes. Concern caused Carrie's eyebrows to bunch together and she focused on Natasha for a moment.

"Are you okay, Natasha?" Obviously the girl was anything but okay, but Carrie simply couldn't think of anything else to say. Natasha glanced up, taking a moment to register the question before she produced a thin smile, a weak shadow of her normal grin.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Really? 'Cause you don't exactly look fine."

"I just didn't get enough sleep, that's all. I'm _fine_ Carrie," insisted Natasha when Carrie's doubting look persisted. Terrence gently set a hand on Carrie's arm, drawing her attention to him and slightly shaking his head. Natasha would tell them when she was ready. Carrie sighed but let the matter drop. When they finally reached their classes and Natasha bid them farewell, the pair of them stood there for a moment, staring after her.

"Something's terribly wrong," said Carrie worriedly.

"Mhm." Terrence gently tugged on Carrie's sleeve as the warning bell echoed through the halls. "She'll tell us eventually, Car."

"I sure hope so," murmured Carrie, following Terrence into their classroom.


	5. Some People Change

**A/N: Aaaaaaaand I'm alive! Whew, I'm super sorry about the long wait guys! I could list a dozen reasons why this update has taken so long, but I don't need to waste your time with that when I'm sure you'd rather be reading the chapter. The only thing I have to say is no promises on when the next chapter will be up because of the same reasons that this one took so very long. Thanks to everyone who sticks with this story through the long waits and anyone who has favorited/followed/or reviewed!:)**

* * *

**Chapter 5: Some People Change**

"I want you to get with your partners and start discussing topics," called out Brennan as the bell rang. "I'll put a general idea list up on the board." There was a scraping of chairs as the students commenced with his instructions. Natasha's heart was racing, but she couldn't say that she hadn't expected it. She didn't move at first, electing to wait for the initial rush to calm down when suddenly a shadow fell over her desk.

"Is it okay if we just work here?" She looked up, surprised to see that Barton had bothered to get up and move over to her. Her eyes flicked over to where the rest of his friends were sitting only to find that his girlfriend was glaring daggers at the two of them.

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea," she answered, looking swiftly away and blushing a deep crimson as she shifted her books off of the empty desk next to her.

"So…" Barton sat down and stared hard at his partner. There didn't seem to be a good way to start this conversation, but Barton had all the cockiness and swagger that he possibly could and, as usual, he let them rule in a situation where he was unsure. "What're we doing this stupid project on?"

"I think we should avoid the Cold War," Natasha stated flatly. Barton hummed a nameless tune under his breath as he studied his fingernails. His eyes widened a touch with her words and the memory of her running from the classroom. He nodded his assent.

"Something earlier then," he suggested.

_Crap-what was that?_

That wasn't what he was supposed to say. In fact, he wasn't supposed to say anything at all. He was just supposed to stare at his hands, the desk, the wall, etc. until she came up with a good idea and then he was supposed to sort of nod along with her decisions until the bell rang. That was what no-good, popular kids did and that was what he had always done. At least, that was what he had always done since he became a no-good, popular kid.

_So what the hell was that?_

Natasha looked just a surprised as he felt. She was frozen for a moment; clearly, whatever she had planned to say next didn't quite apply. Maybe she had even been planning to voice the thought that he had just presented.

"Yes, I suppose…American Revolution?" Clint was suddenly, inexplicably entranced by her emerald eyes and for a moment he didn't quite register that she was expecting an answer, or the doubting look she was wearing. Once he did, he realized it was because she didn't believe that he would know about the American Revolution and his own eyes narrowed.

_What does she take me for, an imbecile? _Clint seethed silently for barely a second when he remembered that he had kind of been acting like an imbecile for quite a while now.

"I think that's a bit too early," replied Barton, actively struggling for once to keep the pompous iciness from creeping into his voice. "Maybe the Civil War?"

_There, that should show her that I'm not historically ignorant-at least, not completely. _

It didn't make a lick of sense, all the thoughts and sudden impulses that were flying through him. He wanted to talk. He wanted to understand, to know, to ask, all of the things that he hadn't wanted since he rewrote his entire personality. There was no rhyme or reason to it, or so Clint thought. But there was something about this girl, something…and then it hit him.

He wanted to impress her.

_Aw, crap. _

Natasha looked slightly reassured when he named another major American war. Strangely enough, neither of them mentioned the fact that they had only been discussing periods of violence in America's past, despite the fact that the project had no such limitations.

"Um sure. Civil War sounds great." Natasha flipped open her red notebook and penciled in the topic. "So maybe we could do something where, like, you take the South and I take the North and we both do our extensive research on the different sides of the war and the effect it had on a few key players like Lee, or Hancock, or Longstreet, or possibly even Armist-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a sec." Clint was proud that he was able to keep the jerk-factor out of his voice when he interrupted her and she only looked confused, not hurt. His head was spinning with the onslaught of information and the speed at which she talked and processed. He had been able to think and work that fast once, and it very nearly led to four miserable years of high school. Three years of dumbing down had succeeded in slowing his brain, clearly evidenced by the fact that he could just barely keep up with Natasha. It had never consciously bothered him before, other than a tiny whisper of irritation in the back of his head that he quickly squashed every now and then, but every past experience was slowly turning to ashes with this one. Once his head stopped whirling around enough for his eyes to refocus, he found Natasha watching him with a strange blend of curiosity and concern.

_Concern?_

"You're going to have to slow down," he told her. "I can't comprehend everything you say when you're talking a mile a minute."

"Can't you?" The challenge in the redhead's voice was completely honest. Even the edge of hostility that had been in the undertone of everything that she said to him since they met vanished for the briefest moment and it was just the two of them, staring into each other's eyes, both trying to figure the other out, those two words hanging ominously in the air above them. They hadn't even realized that they had been slowly leaning closer and closer together until there was a sudden, suspiciously loud coughing from beside their desks and they jumped back, surprised. Turning their eyes up guiltily, Clint and Natasha were met with the foreboding glare of their teacher.

"Got our topic all selected already, hm, Mister Barton? Miss Romanoff?"

"The Civil War, sir," answered Natasha quickly, flipping her notebook around so that he could see the topic and the few ideas she had already scribbled down.

"This is quite a broad topic," commented Brennan, "Where are you placing your emphasis?"

"The Battle of Gettysburg, sir." Natasha was taking a liberty and she silently prayed that Barton would just go along with it-and he did. When Brennan glanced his way, Barton just nodded mutely.

"Humph." Brennan started to turn away. "Don't do all the work yourself, Miss Romanoff. This _is_ a partner project."

"Of course, sir." Both of them breathed a sigh of relief when Brennan moved on to terrorize a different couple.

"Gettysburg?" Barton raised his eyebrow at Natasha. The question was one that the Clint Barton who played on the football team and dated Bobbi Morse would never ask. For just a moment though, Clint was ignoring that part of him. He didn't know what made him do it; he could feel the eyes of his friends on his back, but he was ignoring them too. Three years of denying everything that he liked, 1,095 days of telling himself over and over that being associated with the 'right' people, playing the 'right' sport, having the 'right' attitude was the way to succeed in school, and then in life, 26,280 hours of drilling into his mind the way to act, think, and speak so that he wouldn't slip up and be ostracized again; three years had left him with a lot of pent up personality. So, for once, Barton was saying to hell with his parents, to hell with his coach, to hell with all the 'rules'. He was going to do exactly what he wanted and screw all the rest of them because what did they know anyway?

And then, after a pause barely long enough to take a breath, he mentally slapped himself and forced his falsified persona back into place, scolding his heart for taking over when he worked so hard to keep it trapped. Three years of sacrificing so that he would be able to go to college, 1,095 days of making new friends and making himself a new person, a _better_ person, 26,280 hours of being what every kid dreamed of being, of being what he himself used to dream about being, _that_ was what the past three years had been. This was who he was now and it was for a good reason, because his coach and his parents _did_ know what they were doing and the rules were there for a reason.

At least, that's what he told himself.

Natasha blinked rapidly; the wildly fluctuating emotions behind Barton's incredibly entrancing stormy blue eyes were confusing her and the raging turmoil of emotions that filled her own mind was frustrating beyond belief. She wasn't emotional; that wasn't who she was. She was cold, she was separate, she was everything except what Barton made her into. That was what she had drilled into herself at every foster home. It was just easier. If you got attached, even if you just got curious, you would eventually have to leave and then all you had was a lot of pain.

Natasha had already had enough pain to last a lifetime.

Which was why she cleared her throat now and started scribbling information into her notebook.

"Yes, Gettysburg." The hard edge was back in her voice and more prominent than ever. Natasha had to force herself not to look at his eyes, no matter how much she wanted to, because deep in her mind, buried as far as she could possibly make it go, was a memory. It rose suddenly, unbidden, the face of a different boy-

_No_.

She wasn't going to deal with this-not now, not ever. She jotted down more notes, ignoring the burning gaze she could feel Barton giving her. She couldn't figure him out and she knew it was going to drive her absolutely mental, not to mention she would probably draw more attention from her friends if she was brooding.

_Carrie would have a field day with that. _

Carrie was going to be a bit of a problem, Natasha knew that. She wouldn't be able to poke around who Barton was, even just a little, with his number one critic as her closest friend. Even the excuse of being his partner for a project wasn't good enough for that much, not when she was supposed to be reluctant to work with him and just wishing for the project to be over.

_And I am both of those things. Which is exactly why I'm not getting involved and I'm not going to go looking for trouble. Yet…_

_No. I'm leaving it alone and that's the end of it._

Natasha glanced up at the clock, releasing a breath of relief-there were only about three minutes left in class. She flipped get notebook shut and began tucking it away.

"We're probably going to have to work on this after school," she told Barton reluctantly.

"I have football practice," he answered immediately, his standard excuse for cases like this.

"When's it get over?"

"5:30." Natasha nodded, zipping her book bag shut.

"My house at six then." She grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled her address down, ignoring Barton's spluttering and look of shock. "George and Carol don't get home until nine, but I have to take care of Tina, so don't bring any friends."

She shoved the scrap of paper at him just as the bell rang, providing her an escape just when she needed it. Snatching her backpack off the floor, Natasha darted swiftly out to where Carrie and Terrence were waiting for her.

* * *

Clint stared after Natasha longer than was strictly necessary, waiting until he heard Bobbi's whine from behind him-"Cl_iii_nt"-to get up and shove the paper into his pocket.

"Yeah, I'm coming Bobbi." He slung his arm casually around her shoulders. The note seemed to burn a hole in his pocket as he turned to plant a kiss on Bobbi's lips. She pouted when he pulled away.

"l don't like you spending so much time with that new girl," Bobbi whimpered, turning her face up in an attempt to meet Barton's eyes. He looked away, avoiding her gaze.

"It's just a project Bob," he muttered, hopefully disguising the lie he could feel in the words. He knew it was more than that, that it was going to be more than that, but he didn't want to admit it-to himself or anyone else.

"I guess…" Bobbi sighed and snaked her arm around Clint and leaned into him as they walked through the halls. Despite the fact that he knew Bobbi tended to be fairly shallow, a wave of guilt surged through Clint-and was promptly stamped down.

_I am Clint Barton. I do not feel guilt. I do what I have to do to get by. Bobbi is a means to an end, and so is Natasha. That's the way it is now and that's the way that it's always going to be. Don't be getting any stupid ideas now._

* * *

"Don't stare so obviously, Steve," reprimanded Sharon, dog-earing a page in the packet they had on Henry Ford for their project. "God, your spying skills are terrible."

Steve shot her a glare. "Is it even possible to stare without being obvious, Shar?"

"What do you think I've been doing all period?" she muttered, rolling her eyes. "Honestly, they're just talking."

"That is not what 'just talking' looks like," contradicted Steve. "This-" he gestured between them "-is 'just talking'. Whatever it is they're doing over there looks more like, I dunno, a very intense debate or something."

"That probably explains why Bobbi looks like she's already plotted out Natasha's murder, down to where she's going to hide the body." Steve glanced over his shoulder at Sharon's words, shook his head, and sighed.

"She needs to learn to back down."

"She's just insecure. If she was certain that Clint wasn't going to up and dump her, she wouldn't be this way. At least, not as much."

"How can she be insecure?" Steve's was suddenly bitter and Sharon looked up curiously. "Doesn't she know that Barton's going to date her for the rest of the year just because it looks good?"

"Well obviously not." Sharon flicked her eyes over to Natasha and Clint. "Although, maybe Barton will surprise us."

Steve snorted doubtfully. "As if. Hell will freeze over and Carrie will start being nice to me again-in that order-before Barton does anything beyond academic with Natasha."

"You don't have to wait for Carrie to start being nice to you. That's a two-way street, y'know." Sharon's tone implied that they had had this conversation a dozen times-which they had, of course.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," replied Steve diplomatically, still trying to watch Clint and Natasha discreetly. "Would we even want Natasha to get involved with him? Not that it would ever even be a possibility, mind you."

"I think she'd be good for him." Sharon smiled at the memory of Natasha flying off the handle the couple of times that Barton (and his accomplices) had tried to treat her like any other underclassman. "Sort of refreshing, especially after three years of Bobbi."

"No kidding." Steve shook his head. "Too bad we'll never get to find out."

"You never know," said Sharon, studying the redhead across the room closely. "We should really talk to her some more. I feel like there's a whole lot of life under her skin. Sure would be interesting to hear her talk about it."

"That might be a bit painful for her," commented Steve, recalling the events of Brennan's class a couple days ago. Sharon winced as she shared his memory.

"Fair point." The blonde hesitated, a touch uncertain of what she was about to ask. "Why don't we invite her to coffee with us after school?"

Steve looked up, surprised. Coffee had kinda always been their thing. But after more than half a year of dating, Steve could read Sharon pretty well and it was obvious to him that she really wanted to pull Natasha into their lives. So, like any good boyfriend, he smiled and nodded.

"Sure. I think that's a great idea."

"Perfect." Sharon beamed at him and leaned over to peck his cheek. "Now let's actually do some work. Henry Ford, born July 30th, 1863…."

* * *

"Natasha-hey, Natasha!" The redhead was already halfway down the hallway after sixth period when Steve caught up with her. She paused, sighing. It wasn't his fault that she had used up all of her patience for the day.

"What is it Steve?"

"Uh, well, I was wondering..." A blush that Natasha was starting to think was permanently on Steve's neck flushed his skin. "...are you doing anything after school?"

Natasha froze.

_Is he saying what I think he's saying? Please tell me he's not saying what I think he's saying. _

"I have to watch Tina," she said cautiously, peeking around Steve's hulking form so that she could see Sharon. The blonde was walking down to where the other two were standing at a more reasonable pace. She didn't _look_ angry at her boyfriend, but Natasha didn't know her well enough to be absolutely sure.

"Oh." Steve's face fell just the tiniest fraction. "Well, I was going to ask if you wanted to grab some coffee…you could always bring Tina along."

Dread formed a pit in Natasha's stomach and she swallowed. Sharon was practically within hearing distance now. "Um, Steve, not that I don't appreciate the offer and everything, but I don't know if Shannon would really be okay with that…"

"Actually," Sharon casually looped her arm through Steve's and smiled that same smile at Natasha-that incredibly genuine and warm smile, "it was my idea."

Natasha's eyes widened in surprise and she found herself momentarily speechless. She glanced down at her phone and textbooks, then back up at the couple, who were watching her expectantly. "I still have to look after Tina," she hedged.

"Oh, bring her along!" exclaimed Sharon. "Come on, Natasha. We just want to chat over coffee-new people are exciting in a small town. It's not often we get a chance to make new friends."

_Friends_. Natasha jolted at the word, an action that didn't go unnoticed by Steve and Sharon, but they both chose to ignore it. The redhead chewed on her lower lip uncertainly. Carrie and Terrence only did things after school on Fridays-their parents expected them home immediately after school every other day.

_I wonder what they'd think of this?_

But did it really matter what they thought? They were her friends, not her parents. She had never tempered her actions with the judgments of others and she wasn't about to start now. Steve and Sharon seemed to be genuinely nice in their offer, and Natasha _wanted_ to go. So, she was going to go.

"I guess I could do that…I really do need to run home and get Tina though."

"Do you usually ride the bus?" inquired Sharon as the threesome started to move toward the doors once more. Natasha shook her head.

"No, I walk. George and Carol don't live far from the school."

"Well, not today." Steve held up a lanyard with a set of keys on it. "Let me give you a ride."

"I don't want to impose…"

"Nonsense," declared Sharon, "you won't be. And don't worry, we won't go all couple-y and make you into a third wheel, I promise."

Natasha sighed. She was just about to the point where she was going to give up on protesting anything either of them suggested, which was probably their end goal. Gesturing for them to lead the way, she consented and followed them out to Steve's car.

* * *

"Come on Barton, pick up the pace!" Coach Pierce yelled at his quarterback, clapping his hands together. Clint pushed himself harder, threw his shoulder into the bags they were pushing down the field. He had never been built right for football; he wasn't super broad-shouldered or tall. In fact, he was one of the shorter members of the team. He knew that the only reason he was the starting quarterback was because he had a sharp strategic mind and had put in a hell of a lot of hard work. His breath came in gasps, but he could feel the coach's eyes on him, so he didn't dare slow down or ease up. The physical activity felt great, but Clint couldn't help but think of a very different sport that he would rather be doing; something with a little less contact and a little more Zen. His mind started to wander to the case under his bed and the things he would be able to do tonight….

"Head in the game, Barton!" The coach's hard words jerked Clint back to the task at hand. The latter gave himself a mental shake. Like he had said, he had put in a hell of a lot of work to get where he was in this sport and he wasn't about to throw it all away for one that probably wouldn't take him anywhere in life, no matter how much he enjoyed it. Clint knew that those were the words of his father and his coach coming through in his thoughts, but like he had been doing for so many years now, he squashed his own opinions and desires down. It was safer that way.

Yet, he couldn't seem to keep his mind from wandering to his appointment for later tonight, couldn't keep his heart from pounding, couldn't keep his palms from sweating in a way that had nothing to do with physical exertion. It was ridiculous; the nervousness he felt at their scheduled study session was completely irrational, but for some reason Clint had expected it.

"Barton!" There was unmistakable anger in the coach's voice now and Clint cursed himself internally. "Take ten on the bench!"

Clint dropped the bag he had been pushing right where he stopped and jogged over to the bench, pouring a stream of Gatorade into his mouth from the bottles. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the cheerleaders practicing off to the side of the field. He desperately hoped that Bobbi hadn't heard the coach yelling, pretending not to notice the little voice in the back of his head that was hoping she _had_ heard and would break it off between them because of it-

_Wait, what?_

Clint didn't have time to ponder over this revelation because just then the coach stormed over, arms crossed and lips pursed.

"What's with you today, Barton?" Pierce glared down at his quarterback. "You're distracted, unfocused, and less than 100%. That's not good enough, you got that? I need more than that, especially from you. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," muttered Clint.

"I don't need to remind you of the consequences if I don't get that, do I?" The threat behind Pierce's words was transparently evident and it made Clint's blood boil. He knew that he had no choice but to comply with what Pierce wanted, if for no other reason than to avoid the wrath of his father at home.

"No, sir," he replied, forcibly preventing the venom from seeping into his voice.

"Good." Pierce was cold and steely, the way that he was whenever he spoke to Clint alone. His tone and actions were far different around the rest of the team and in front of the press and they tended to leave a bitter taste in Clint's mouth. Now, the coach clapped Barton on the shoulder, a simple show of fatherly support; yet, Clint had to fight with every fiber of his being to keep from cringing at the contact. Clint took another swig of Gatorade as Pierce walked away. Coulson's face suddenly popped into Barton's mind, accompanied by his lingering fury and disgust and Clint felt something he hadn't felt for at least a year:

He felt the tiniest, slimmest, sliver of shame.

* * *

Sharon sipped her cappuccino, casually observing Natasha, who happened to, at the moment, be staring over to the kid's play area of the coffee shop where Tina was romping around. In her mind, the blonde was turning over and over the few bits of information that Natasha had finally been coaxed into sharing: she liked to dance, she cared deeply for young children, and she was partial to the cold. She refused, understandably, to speak about her parents, or any past foster families she had been in, but Sharon didn't particularly care about those; that had been on of Steve's questions. She didn't know it, but Natasha too was turning over the questions that Steve and Sharon had answered for her as well: how they both missed their old friends (Carrie and Terrence, namely) who had seen Steve and Sharon's friendship with "those kids" as a sort of betrayal and how the two of them served, quite proficiently, as mediators and shoulders to cry on for just about anyone who drummed up the courage to ask. All three of them knew that the answers Steve and Sharon had provided were more in depth and personal than those that Natasha had given, but Sharon saw it as an investment. She was placing the trust in Natasha now and, hopefully, she would see that and return the trust in time. The redhead was currently swirling her chai tea in aimless circles, keeping her eye on her young protégé over in the mini-playground. Steve kept flicking his eyes between the two girls, not sure if they wanted to enjoy the silence or return to their game of twenty questions. The air between them held no tension, no awkwardness, no expectation. It was merely the comfortable atmosphere of three friends, old and new, enjoying a warm drink after a long day of school. Natasha was surprised to find herself completely relaxed and-dare she say-having a bit of fun? She permitted herself a small smile before glancing down at her watch and sighing at the time. Steve and Sharon caught her look and knew what she was going to say before she uttered the words.

"I should probably be getting home soon; I've got to feed Tina and straighten up the house still."

Sharon gazed over at the little girl, whose face was all alight with joy at the slide. "You know, she really is adorable."

"I certainly think so," agreed Natasha warmly. She stood with a stretch and Steve reached for everyone's cups to toss into the trash. He fished his keys out of his pocket.

"I'll go pull the car up while you two get Tina." Natasha and Sharon nodded and Steve left without another word.

"Tina!" called Natasha, approaching the play area. The young girl looked up and grinned a grin with one tooth missing. Sharon smothered a laugh and even Natasha, who had seen the smile already, had to suppress one of her own.

"Yes, Nattie?" Natasha winced at Tina's new favorite nickname for her, eyeing Sharon out of the corner of her eye for a reaction, but it seemed that all the blonde thought was that Tina was positively loveable.

"It's time to go home sweetheart." Tina's face dropped immediately and her lower lip pushed out in a pout. Natasha quickly opened her arms for the little girl to run into and wrapped her in a warm hug.

"Do we have to?"

Sharon smiled as Natasha gently tickled Tina's chin. "Don't you want to ride in the car again little one?"

"The car?" Tina perked right up and they all looked toward the door when they heard Steve honk the horn. Natasha and Sharon burst out laughing.

"Yes, dear," said Sharon, "let's go join Steve in the car."

Natasha reached down and hoisted Tina into her arms. She hesitated, looking like she wanted to say something, but wasn't quite sure how to say it. Sharon raised her eyebrows questioningly.

"Thank you," Natasha said finally. She gestured toward the table they had just vacated. "I don't get to do things like this often and it was nice. I didn't even know I needed a break like that, but I guess I did."

"Anytime," replied Sharon with a smile that came easily to her lips. "And I mean that, anytime. Here, let me put my number in your phone and you can call or text whenever you just need to get away."

Natasha was surprised, but gratefully handed over her phone. Sharon quickly entered her number into the contacts and returned the device.

"Thanks," repeated Natasha. An unfamiliar warm feeling was filling her and Natasha wasn't even sure what to call it. It wasn't just happiness, it certainly wasn't love-

_Friendship. This must be what the beginning of a real friendship feels like._

"You're welcome." Sharon grinned back. She could feel the start of a wonderful friendship too; but she could also see something else, something that she had waited several years for.

A way to change the society of their high school and, more importantly, a way to heal the rift that split her friends in two.

* * *

Clint hesitantly punched the address Natasha had given him into his phone's GPS. He was trying (unsuccessfully) to get the look of betrayal that he had left on Bobbi's face when he told her that he couldn't come over tonight out of his head. The GPS started calculating the route and Clint began to reach for a comb before he caught himself.

_I don't need to comb my hair. This isn't a date. It's a study session that is being mandated by a project._

He repeated the words like a mantra, searing them into his brain until the GPS beeped and sent a wave of relief through him. The engine on his truck roared to life, startling a couple of freshman volleyball players who were walking toward a different car. Barton pulled out of the parking lot and focused on each direction without thinking about the destination he was headed to.

* * *

Natasha flitted nervously around the house. She had done the vacuuming and made dinner for herself and Tina. The bathroom smelled like Lysol and the dishwasher was all but ready to go. She fluffed the pillows on the couch, glancing, as she had been doing every few seconds for the last half-hour, at the clock.

_5:48_

Finally, with nothing else to do, Natasha settled for filling the kettle and lighting the burner beneath it. Hopefully, the tea would help to calm her nerves. Tina was playing with two dolls on the sitting room floor, totally absorbed, so Natasha took the opportunity to dash upstairs and splash some water on her face.

_What the heck has gotten into you Natasha?_

She searched deep in her mind and heart for the cold iciness that she usually projected on her exterior, but found that she had to search longer than normal to find it. Once she did, however, she felt the familiar surge of calm and control settle over her. She swallowed the fear and nerves that had formed a lump in her throat and slammed down the wall behind her eyes.

_5:55_

Natasha wasn't happy, but she felt secure in the skin of the cold, isolated girl that she had played for so long. She robotically gathered her textbook and laptop from her room and moved them down to the sitting room. Tina was so tied up in her game that she didn't even stir when Natasha reentered the room.

_6:01_

_He's late._ She tried not to make that the first thought that she had when the clock finally switched, but failed miserably. Gritting her teeth, Natasha told herself that there were a million things that could have come up: Bobbi, practice running late, traffic…

Not that it mattered when he showed up of course, she was just annoyed that he was wasting her time, that was all.

_6:13_

When the doorbell finally rang, Natasha flinched. She had all but decided that he wasn't coming when the sound rang out, drawing Tina's attention. The young girl ran to the door, but remembered a half second before she touched it that she wasn't actually allowed to open the door. She looked back at Natasha with big pleading eyes and the redhead couldn't help but smile at the little girl's excitement, just because someone was at the door. Cautiously, Natasha peeked through the peep-hole, not that she expected anyone other than Barton to be calling at this time of night. Sure enough, there he was, Letterman jacket and all, faded red pickup truck parked on the curb out front. Unable to think of any other good reason to delay opening the door, Natasha reluctantly turned the lock. Tina watched the door swing open with wide eyes but, as soon as she caught sight of Barton, the little one dove behind Natasha, pressing her tiny figure into the redhead's legs. Natasha wrapped her arm around Tina comfortingly. Looking up at Barton, Natasha let the cold persona that she was hell bent on keeping in place do the talking.

"You're late."


End file.
